


three o'clock dandelion time

by Signe (oxoniensis)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Community: spn_gleeweek, F/M, First Time, Pre-Canon, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-27
Updated: 2009-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis/pseuds/Signe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's always three o'clock dandelion time."  She drops the stem in the grass and puts her hands back behind her head.</p><p>Sam tries it.  He leans on his elbow to reach out for another dandelion.  Three puffs and it's gone.  "You're right," he says, leaning over and brushing the seeds from her hair, kissing her light as the fall of dandelion seeds.</p><p>"It means we can stay here forever," she says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	three o'clock dandelion time

She picks a dandelion and holds it up to the sky. One puff, two, three.

Sam stares at her profile. Watches her lips purse together and blow out, watches her eyes flicker shut a moment as though she's making a wish. Dandelion snow lands on her hair – her hair's so pale it barely shows.

"It's always three o'clock dandelion time." She drops the stem in the grass and puts her hands back behind her head.

Sam tries it. He leans on his elbow to reach out for another dandelion. Three puffs and it's gone. "You're right," he says, leaning over and brushing the seeds from her hair, kissing her light as the fall of dandelion seeds.

"It means we can stay here forever," she says.

*

He wants to see her naked. Spread out on the warm ground like a harvest offering. She says _no_, soft and regretful, _someone might come by_, so instead he slides his hand under her skirt. She says _yes_, and lets her thighs fall open.

The sun's hot on his back, and she's even hotter clenching around his fingers.

Under the covers later that night, he jerks off to the memory of it.

*

There are eels in the river. The color of mud, and they whip between the weeds so fast it's hard to keep track of them. She says younger boys come to the lower reaches in the spring where the river runs through town and catch the elvers, thigh deep in the fast spring flow, but there's always enough they miss.

The water's slower in the summer, sluggish and yellow-brown with the mud. She's in shorts, Sam too. The eels don't bother her – sneakers off and she's in the water. Sam wrinkles his nose at the feel of mud between his toes and she laughs at him, pulls him down with her so they're both soaked. Their legs look pale and ridiculous through the water, like white sticks. He says so, and she punches him in the chest.

*

Dean lends him the car. "Just this once. Don't go thinking this is gonna be a regular thing."

Sam grabs the keys and takes off before Dean changes his mind. Or worse, tags along.

They park up, head of the valley facing west where they can see the sunset, and she's in his lap, soft little breasts in his face, and he feels too big, too clumsy when he holds her waist.

"Sam," she says, and waits for him to look at her. "I'm not gonna break."

He gulps and nods, but his hands still look too big.

He doesn't see the sunset, just the glow of it on her skin.

*

Her bedroom is plain – white walls, white linens, wooden floor, sketches on the walls. There's a bookcase, full, and more books piled up against the walls. More under the bed too – he stubs his toe on them and he hops on one foot a moment while she laughs at him apologetically.

"It's nice," he says. "Your room." He means it.

"I didn't bring you here to show you my room," she says, and tugs at his tee-shirt. He lifts his arms like a child and lets her pull it over his head. Stands there, and feels more naked than just the loss of a shirt.

Her window's open and the breeze catches his skin. Nipples tight and a shiver runs across him.

He hears her exhale, loud in the quiet room. Pulls her to him and his lips are on hers and he feels her breath now, ribcage rising and falling. Walks her backward, two steps, until her knees are against the bed. He stops there, and she's the one who drops to the bed, pulls him down with her.

He counts up her ribcage, pushing her shirt out of the way. He fumbles a little with her bra, not nervous – he's done this before, another time and place – just the difficulty of undoing tiny clasps he can't see. "Let me," she says, and takes over, shrugging off her shirt and bra in one easy move.

Her nipples are rosy brown. Smooth until he lathes them with his tongue and they wrinkle up against the touch. The rest of her is pale, white and smooth like a daffodil bulb forced in the dark despite the hours she spends outside. No freckles even. His hands are huge and brown on her skin, rough against the creamy softness of her.

"I want—" she says and flushes. Whispers what she wants in his ear, then looks away while she pulls off her jeans and panties.

He hasn't seen her naked before, just glimpses, hints beneath thin fabric and touch under cotton. She's boyish slim, still growing into herself. She starts to falter under his stare and he smiles reassurance and kisses the little round of her belly. Works down to wiry blonde hair, and he's not sure what he's doing now, goes by the little gasps she makes to tell him when he's getting it right. Laps at her, twists his tongue into the folds until she's keening, twisting her comforter between her fingers. A final gasp and she goes limp, his head resting against her thigh.

"Sam," she says, hands in his hair, and makes it sound different, special. "Sam," like it's a chant. He likes the sound of it – it hits him in his belly, deep and warm, good. He lays there a while, listening to her say his name, softer and softer with each repetition.

He wants to kiss her, but he doesn't know if she'd want to taste herself on him when he kisses her. There's a glass of water on her bedside table. "May I?" he asks, pointing. She lifts her head to see what he's talking about and nods. He gulps it down even though it's tepid.

He lies back down beside her, and she rolls into him, and he tries not to rub up against her, tries to will down his erection, but she puts her hands on the bulge in his jeans and he pushes up into her touch.

"I—" she starts, then begins unbuttoning his jeans without saying any more. He's wearing old white briefs – he didn't think, this morning when he got dressed – soft and worn and gray from being washed so many times, and when he lifts his head he can see the outline of his cock through them. There's a damp patch, and he'd be embarrassed but he's just tasted how wet he made her, and he wants her to know how much she turns him on.

"Have you ever--?" he asks, and she shakes her head and grips him awkwardly through the cotton, squeezing and pulling up the length. It shouldn't be so hot, it's all wrong the way she's doing it, and if it were his own hands it wouldn't do anything for him, but he can feel his balls tightening already and he doesn't think he can hold on much longer, not when he can see her tongue poking between her lips in concentration, the bony curve of her ass against his leg. She's pressed up against his side, her breasts against him, and he feels hyper aware of every part of her. He reaches into his briefs, pushing them down so it's her skin against his, her hand on his bare cock – that's all it takes and he's spurting up over his stomach, sticky on her hands.

He cradles her, after, hand cupping her ass, holding her against him. Wants her to feel precious – he tries to tell her, but the words stumble on his lips, clumsy and wrong, so he traces his fingers over her bare shoulders, lifts her chin to look at him. She smiles back at him, bright like the July sun, and he ducks, head down, overwhelmed.

Sounds flutter in through the window, a key turning in a lock, people talking. Her parents are home, and she puts her fingers on his lips. _Shh_. Their secret.

*

He tells her he's leaving at the bus stop where they waited for the school bus each day. Sam didn't ask, but Dean talked Dad into making the slight detour.

She bites her lip. He stands an arm's length away. He met her here, first day in a new school – they didn't speak for a week, not until the bus was late one day and she asked him the time, showing her bare arm, no watch. After that they spoke, studied together, kissed hesitantly then more surely. It was only three months ago.

"So—" she says.

"Yeah. Dad's got a job," Sam says, and it's true but not in any way he can tell her. He tries to hide his anger – it's not at her.

"Bye then," she says, and stands up on tiptoe and kisses him, sweet and quick like the first time, only this is a goodbye not a promise. He brushes his hand across her cheek, nods because he hasn't any more words to say, turns and leaves.

He half expects to hear a wisecrack from Dean when he gets in the car, but Dean had his back to them, and if he looked in the mirror, he doesn't say. Just starts up and peels out behind Dad's truck.

When Sam looks back the bus is there, blocking his view. He lifts his hand to wave, then lets it drop. He didn't even say goodbye.

*

There are weeds in the motel parking lot. Dandelions litter the edge of it, gone to seed. He wanders over, stretching his legs from the long drive and picks one, holds it up. One puff, two, three. Three o'clock. Some things don't change. It's always three o'clock dandelion time.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to Kirsten Sea and vinylroad and thanks also to Anna Lazarus for checking for stray briticisms. Written for spn_gleeweek's Guess the Author. First published April 2008.


End file.
